


High Stakes

by theleafpile



Series: What Happens in Vegas [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, BAMF Chloe Decker, Bisexual Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, Las Vegas, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Wing Reveal, Merry Christmas, Miscommunication, Morning Sex, Morning Wood, Partners to Lovers, Poker, Protective Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Tropes, even the devil gets morning wood, my favorite tropes:, these are wild but trust me, you can see whats happening here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleafpile/pseuds/theleafpile
Summary: Chloe, upon hearing that Lucifer will be joined at a million-dollar poker game in Vegas by a notorious mobster the L.A.P.D. has been itching to get anything on, invites herself along for a little off-the-books snooping.But she hadn't realized: playing with the Devil isalwayshigh stakes.





	1. Chapter 1

“Vegas. Again. Seriously?” Chloe asked, trying very carefully – and failing – to keep the edge out of her voice. She stood in the kitchen, wiping off the counter after putting that morning’s dishes in, listening as Lucifer explained to Maze that he would be leaving. Again.

“Only for a few days,” he answered her, whirling excitedly on his heel to face her. Maze threw up a hand at her apparent dismissal, then marched toward the door.

“Sometimes I think you’d rather live there,” Chloe muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Maze slammed the door behind her, which caused her to jump at the noise. 

“Absolutely not,” Lucifer said, horrified. He smoothed down the front of his dark suit jacket as though brushing off the thought. “The Devil in Sin City? I’d be a walking cliché.”

Chloe rinsed out the sponge, her ponytail shaking as she shook her head. “But the ‘City of Angels’ makes more sense.”

He bristled. 

She didn’t notice, and by the time she returned her gaze to him, he was ready and waiting with a factory-setting smile. “Is there a real reason this time?”

“There’s always a reason,” he answered easily. “But this time I’ve just so happen to have been invited – for the third year in a row – to the Wynn’s private poker game.”

She leaned forward on the counter, unimpressed. “If you wanted to play poker, I told you Dan’s got a monthly game going.”

“I imagine his buy-in is slightly less.”

“What’s the buy in?”

He lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “A million.”

She caught her jaw before it fell onto the floor, trying to remember who she was talking to. “A million,” she repeated. “Dollars.”

“No, a million _yen_. Of course dollars. That is the American currency, last I checked.”

She lifted herself upright. “And that’s just to play,” she confirmed. He nodded, trying to understand her confusion. “Whatever. It’s your money. Besides,” she came around the counter, passing him by, “it’ll be nice. "Lucifer-free." I have the next couple days off, too.”

“Naturally,” he said, questioningly as he watched her retreat further into the apartment, then continued. “Four of the same players are as last year. I’ve met the others, though I haven’t played with either Alan Piagett or Joseph Bianchi, before.”

Chloe stopped in her tracks, turning quickly to face him. “Joseph Bianchi. As in ‘Joey’ Bianchi.”

“I believe that is his preferred moniker.”

She screwed up her mouth, thinking.

“Why?” he pressed.

She tried to shrug it off. “You know what, I’m sure there are a lot of Joey Bianchi’s out there. It’s probably a coincidence.”

“Alright,” he dragged out, watching as she turned away.

She whirled around once more. “But you’ve said you’ve met him, before?”

He could get whiplash from watching her. “Problem?”

“About 6 foot, white, dark hair, dark eyes, buck ’90?” she gestured to her left forearm. “Tattoo of his father?”

“The same.”

She blew out a breath. “Crap.”

He waited for more of an answer. 

She took a moment, then nodded definitively. “Alright. I’m going with you.”

She turned back around to climb the stairs, leaving him open mouthed. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

“I’m going with you,” she threw over her shoulder, halfway up. She caught his confused expression and took pity, stopping and turning to explain. “Joey Bianchi’s got a rap sheet about a foot long. He’s suspected as being one of the higher-ups of the Bianchi drug-smuggling family-slash-cartel that’s left, oh, six people dead, probably at his hand. That we know about.”

“And you joining me – not that I’m against it whatsoever – at a poker game is going to accomplish what, exactly?”

She descended the few steps, excitement evident in her sly, calculating expression. “L.A.P.D. won’t have jurisdiction, but any evidence left in plain sight that could lead us to something that _would_ be permissible could be just the break that we need.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Plain sight, as in, his mobile phone or anything carelessly left out – in his hotel suite, perhaps?”

She nodded, pressing her lips together. 

He broke into a wide grin. “And just when I was wondering how I could make this weekend more interesting.”

 

The next evening Lucifer waited for the detective, leaning against the Corvette and smoking in the parking lot of her apartment. His bag was tucked safely in the trunk. It was a four hour drive, and he was in no hurry. The game wouldn’t start until the next evening, but the idea of subterfuge – especially when it didn’t require him to lie, or really, change his plans whatsoever – had his heart beating faster.

Chloe appeared, a duffel thrown carelessly over her shoulder. He frowned.

“This is high stakes, detective. Tell me you have evening wear in there.”

She pulled the bag off her shoulder as he opened the trunk for her. “I picked out a couple of nice dresses.”

“This isn’t a cousin’s wedding.”

“I think it’ll be fine,” she said, going around the car and opening her door. “Don’t worry.”

He was shutting the trunk when an idea came to him. “Tell me you at least brought shoes.”

She sat, watching as he came around and did the same. “I did.”

He turned the ignition and the engine roared to life. “Excellent.”

 

They pulled into a parking lot that was definitely as far away, spiritually, at least, as one could get from the Wynn Casino in Vegas, which had Chloe frowning in confusion.

Lucifer leapt out the car, coming around to open her door for her as she stared at the sign. The parking lot was mostly full, rounding ten in the evening. 

“Fletchers,” she read, standing. 

He shut the door then stood, awkwardly, to her side. “Well, detective,” he began, searching for words.

She turned toward him in his reluctance, but kept her silence. 

“There are some things that I have not been entirely forthcoming about,” he said hurriedly, “like, Fletchers,” he said, gesturing toward the sign. 

He faltered, lowering his hand. She laid hers atop his.

“What’s here, Lucifer?” she asked.

He looked down at her hand, her thumb rubbing reassuringly atop his own. “It may be best if you just see,” he told it.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of old smoke lingered in the air, the kind that seeped into furniture and carpeting and never really washed away. Chloe followed Lucifer through the dark entranceway and into the open room. The mirrored stage reflected the low light, the patrons at the tables thrown into shadow by small lamps in the center of their tables, sipping amber drinks from thick, crystal glasses. Wordlessly, Lucifer took her hand, leading her gently through the throng of tables and toward the bar. 

A woman sang, her voice sweet and melodious as she visited each table like a bee to a flower. Her blue dress glittered with a thousand sequins, trailing on the floor behind her like a wave. Her long, blonde hair was curled at the ends and tinged with the same color – for the winter season, Chloe supposed, barely glancing over.

 _“I won’t ask for much this Christmas,”_ she sang, her sweetness somehow alluring in an tempting-innocence sort of way, _“I won’t even wish for snow. I just wanna keep on waiting, underneath the mistletoe.”_

Lucifer ordered before taking a seat, and Chloe followed suit. “Lucifer,” she whispered, “why are we here?”

He sighed, leaving his back to the stage as he took the glass from the bartender. Chloe waited. With a small movement, he gestured toward the singer.

“Meet Candy Fletcher,” he said. “My ex-wife. The _real_ Candy.”

Chloe dragged her eyes toward the singer, who saw them looking and smiled broadly, continuing to sing.

“Moved up from stripping,” Chloe muttered.

Lucifer sighed, frustrated, and turned in his seat. “She was never an exotic dancer, detective. Not that I’m aware, anyway. Candy owns this place. She’s a singer.”

Chloe breathed out, deflated. 

Candy’s smiled faltered, and she moved toward another patron. _“Cause I just want you here, tonight, holding onto me so tight,”_ she sang.

“You lied to me?” Chloe asked, feeling suddenly cold. She was minutely aware of Lucifer’s presence beside her. When only seconds ago their closeness had been comfortable, now she felt as though she were sitting beside a stranger.

He downed the rest of the drink, signaling to the bartender for more. “I used Candy –”

“Oh, cause that’s better.”

“– I needed her. To retrieve information I otherwise could not. And I wanted –”

Chloe tersely stood, ready to walk away. "Yeah, I can guess."

He reached out and held her wrist, loosely, but she received the message all the same. 

“– to give you a choice,” he finished. 

“And what choice was that?” she asked sternly. He dropped his hand. “To wait for you, for weeks, while I recovered? To not know anything about where you were, or what happened, or why you left, just when we – when we had just –”

“I am sorry,” he quietly apologized, lowering his head. “It wasn’t up to me.”

“The hell it wasn’t,” Chloe seethed, her voice low, but carrying enough the man in the table closest glanced over. “You made a choice.”

“And I’m making one now,” he tried. “I told you before. I want to tell you everything.” He gestured once more toward Candy. “This is part of everything.”

Chloe shut her eyes, trying to control her breathing. 

_“I just want you for my own,”_ Candy sang. _“More than you could ever know.”_

Finally, she took the seat beside him. 

He offered her a smile, then, a small one, that barely reached his eyes.

But it was real.

 

After the set ended, Candy disappeared backstage and the murmuring din of the room returned, filling the fallen silence. Lucifer weaved easily between the tables, smiling at the few greetings and _Mr. Morningstar_ ’s he received. Chloe followed, unsure and trying to ignore the pit in her stomach.

She knew that she didn’t really know her partner. But to see it thrown so blatantly in her face wasn’t exactly a pleasant feeling.

Candy was in a dressing area, removing her earrings. “Lucifer!” she said, as they approached, smiling at their reflections. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

Chloe stared while Lucifer let out a nervous chuckle. “Yes, well, me neither, but duty called.”

“Poker called,” Chloe corrected, her eyes darting over Candy’s small figure, waiting for the inevitable squeal she had come to expect from the other woman.

None came.

“And you brought the detective,” she said happily, finishing with her jewelry and coming to face her. “I am really happy to see you.”

“You – you are?”

“Are you here to ask for my blessing?” she teased.

Chloe and Lucifer stumbled over one another, answering negatively, which had Candy smiling knowingly. 

“I came to ask you for a favor, darling,” he recovered, “though it will definitely require both of you to be in the nude,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Candy smacked him in the stomach, and he only flinched a little. She took Chloe’s hand, leading her further into the dressing area while Lucifer stepped away.

Chloe turned, a question on her lips, as the smaller woman dragged her away. Lucifer lifted a few fingers in a wave, then disappeared.

Candy shut the door behind him, then turned, studying the detective. “He’s here for the Wynn game, yeah?” she asked. Chloe nodded. Candy smiled, victorious. "We talk." She took pity on the detective’s confused expression. “He wants you to borrow some of my dresses,” she explained, stepping past and throwing open a closet door to reveal a rainbow of glittering and satiny gowns.

Chloe relaxed, finally understanding. Candy grabbed a couple of hangers, then turned, nearly squealing with excitement. “This is gonna be fun!”

Chloe tried very hard not to bolt for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

What could have only been several hours later, Chloe had been dressed, undressed, spun, made to stand in front of three way mirror, poked, laced, buttoned, her hair looped up and down, and made to sit so much her thighs were feeling it – but they did, finally, pick out three suitable dresses.

Two Chloe definitely felt comfortable in (comfortable enough to snoop, illegally, around someone else’s stuff, but she wasn’t going to tell Candy that), and the other – 

Well. Even though it had Chloe feeling more like a pin-up in a magazine than a real human being, Candy assured her with a knowing look in her eye that this was _definitely_ the one she needed to take.

Candy carefully pulled the dresses into a garment bag as Chloe slipped on a boot. She cleared her throat nervously.

“You can ask, you know,” Candy assured, not turning around.

“Ask what?”

Candy shot her a pitying look. “Lucifer needed info on his mom. It was all an act. I owed him.”

“For?”

Candy softened. “He saved my life. Honestly. None of this,” she raised her eyes, looking around. “None of what I have would still be mine. Then he went and saved my life again, for real for real this time, from my no-good bartender who wanted to kill me to sell off the place.”

Chloe’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know.”

Candy shrugged, zipping up the bag and handing it to the other woman. “He doesn’t brag.”

“Have you met him?” Chloe asked, taking it. 

Candy laughed. “Not about important stuff.”

Chloe smoothed the bag over her forearm, looking down.

“We never –” Candy began. Chloe’s head shot up. “Our marriage was more of a business arrangement. He said he couldn't lie about it, but it wasn’t real.” Chloe allowed herself a small smile, and tried not to look surprised when Candy reached out, taking her hand. “What you two have, _is_.”

She wasn’t able to help the tears that sprung in the corners of her eyes. Candy squeezed her hand. 

Chloe shook her head, willing the tears away. “He’s supposed to be my partner, you know? But also – also my friend. And it’s like,” she breathed, looking up toward the ceiling, “like every time something happens, or I think, finally, I might have an idea who he is, he just –”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish. 

“If it were anyone else, I would never say this,” Candy said, serious. “But I think he might be worth the weird.”

Chloe laughed, taking her hand back to brush away a stray tear. “You’re his wife, you would know.”

“Yeah, I would. So trust me.” 

Chloe met her gaze.

“No, better yet,” she said, thinking. “Trust him. I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she assured, then gave her a friendly push. “Now get out there and wow him. He won’t know what to do with himself, seeing you in these.”

She smiled. “I’ll bet.”

 

Lucifer was swaying on the stool by the time Chloe approached. She watched him listen, then laugh at something with the bartender, before slipping in to the space beside him with a smile. 

“Ah, detective!” he said, a little loudly. “Have you met Frankie?” 

She smiled at the bartender, a lean, Hispanic man in his late 30s, obviously very confident with his apparent sexuality. “Hi,” she said.

“Frankie has some very interesting ideas about what we –”

“Yeah, okay,” she laughed, dragging him off the stool. He quickly threw back his drink and tossed a couple of bills on the counter before she led him away. 

He spotted the bag. “Did you get everything you needed?” he asked, following her out the door and into the cool night air. 

She smiled to herself, looking him over. Everything on him looked impeccable to the untrained observer, but another button on his shirt had become undone and he must have swiped a hand through his hair, loosening it, meaning he was well on his way to being sloshed. “I did,” she said, then lifted her palm and an eyebrow. 

Begrudgingly, he handed her his keys. 

“Oh, come on,” he said, trailing after her disapproving look. “Do you know how difficult it is to get drunk when you’re not around? Takes bloody ages.”

“Get in the car, Lucifer,” she called back toward him, tossing the bag into the back and sliding in the driver’s seat. 

“Feels... nice,” he said, following and slipping into the seat beside her, running his hands down his front. “Warm.”

She shook her head with a laugh, starting the car. “It’s your vacation, but don’t forget why we’re here.”

“I’m here to win loads and loads of money, detective. And catch a bad guy. I couldn’t think of a better reason to celebrate.”

 

They made it all the way inside the luxurious hotel and casino interior with all its opulence, softly illuminated marble and golden holiday decorations, when Chloe stopped in her tracks. Lucifer stumbled into her from behind, an _oof_ escaping from his lips as the bags he carried (her duffel, and his own) swung around to smack her on the leg. 

“Lucifer,” she said.

“Present.”

“They know why you’re here,” she realized. 

“I should hope so. Wire transfer went through this morning. Why they don’t accept cash, I don’t know.”

She turned to face him. “But they don’t know why I’m here.”

He broke into a broad grin. “Why, you’re my date, of course!”

“Your… date.”

“Do you have a better idea, detective?”

She glanced around nervously, throwing a hand onto his arm. “Cut it out with the detective stuff, okay?” she told him, straightening. “Bianchi won’t recognize me, but he might the name, and we don’t need him getting suspicious of us, _at all._ ”

He leaned closer, murmuring suggestively. “Whatever you say, darling.” 

“Oh, that’s better,” she mumbled, walking toward the reception desk. 

“Love,” Lucifer continued, following. “Pet.”

She shot a look over her shoulder, mouthing the word back at him with a question.

He shrugged. “Would you prefer something more intimate? Honey? Sweetheart?”

“Shhh,” she said, getting in line behind one other person.

He smiled, stepping forward as the space became unoccupied. “Lucifer,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.

“You can’t call me by your own name.”

“Morningstar,” he finished, a laugh in his eye as he told the woman behind the desk his name. 

“Good evening, sir,” the woman responded politely, checking him in. “Will your companion be staying with us also?”

“Absolutely,” he dragged out, looking her over hungrily. 

She directed her attention toward Chloe. “Your name, miss?” she asked. “For security purposes.”

Chloe blanched. “Dancer,” she said quickly. “Chloe Dancer.”

He smiled appreciatively and took the room keys without a second glance. 

“We’re happy to place any valuables you may have brought in our house safe,” the woman offered.

Lucifer waved her off. “No need.”

“Very well. You’re in the Tower King suite. Elevators are right that way,” she politely pointed to their left. “Enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sure I will,” he purred. He offered his arm. “Miss Dancer.”

Chloe remembered she was being watched, so she smiled and looked up at him hungrily. “Lead the way, Mr. Morningstar.”

He eyed the elevators. “With pleasure.”


	4. Chapter 4

She kept her hand tucked over his folded arm as they walked, and into the elevator, and all the way to the room. 

Obviously, just in case someone was watching. Including the security tapes. She released him only so he could unlock the door. 

He missed the warmth of her hand immediately. 

She led the way inside, the garment bag drooping as she took in the space. Contemporary, white leather furniture greeted them, all cleans lines in the gently illuminated space, a desk tucked into the corner opposite the bed. She clicked on another light and stared into the bathroom. Warm marble stared back, two sinks with plush, fluffy white towels stacked on the shelving beneath, and an invitingly large tub waited, complete with purple orchid in the corner. 

As Lucifer passed her, her eye followed to the opposite side of the room, where a floor-to-ceiling window stood, overlooking the flat, glittering city below and offering a view of the desert beyond, low hills dark and shadowed in the distance.

He tossed their bags near the couch and fell face forward onto the bed with a grunt.

“Lucifer, this is,” she started, walking slowly toward the window. “Gorgeous.”

“It’s alright,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the bedspread. “I like the breakfast,” he continued, heaving onto his side. “And the bathrobes.”

She gently laid the garment bag over the edge of the couch. “Of course you do.”

“What?” he questioned, pulling himself up to lean on his elbows.

“You like robes.”

“Well,” he stuttered, and she couldn’t believe it: he _blushed_. 

“Habit, I suppose,” he decided, and she wondered who on Earth could make a habit out of robes, of all things, but she left it alone.

Because suddenly it became painfully, glaringly obvious that there was something else that was going to require her immediate attention, especially as she stifled a yawn.

“There’s one bed.”

“You’re exceptionally observant.”

She threw a hand on her hip, bold. “So where are you going to sleep?”

He smiled, not playing her game. He shifted over to the left side, leaving plenty of room for her. “Right here, of course.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In fact,” he faked a huge yawn and spread his arms out in a stretch. It pulled his open collar tighter, revealing an enticing amount of collarbone, dabbled with freckles she’d never really paid attention to before. “I think I might just tuck in. Big day tomorrow, you know.”

She had an idea. 

She kicked off her shoes and slowly dragged herself over the bedspread, crawling on all fours toward him. His eyes darkened as she approached, and he glanced down as she drew a hand up the side of his thigh to his hip, flirting with the leather of his belt. “Oh, I know,” she said assuredly, tucking her fingers in the strap. “ _Big,_ ” she empashized. He let out a breath. “Day.”

He leaned closer, his gaze suddenly serious. She could smell the ghost of cologne over the scent of his last cigarette, the whisky still warm and inviting as he exhaled a soft moan, tucking his chin to dip down closer, tantalizingly close. 

She untucked her fingers, skirting them over the side of his hip.

Some part of her responded to his closeness, to the heat from the brush of his arm over hers. She dared to raise her eyes, dragging her gaze up the side of his neck, taking in the dark stubble on his face, the shell of his ear, the few lines beside his eyes. He raised a knee, and in his lean, hovered his leg just over hers, not yet touching. Waiting.

She knew – knew, _exactly_ , with _certainty_ , and that frightened her more than anything – that if she had not been using her other hand to prop herself up, that it would have found itself caressing the long column of his throat by now, running a thumb over his jaw – 

She inhaled, coming back to herself.

She shoved him off the bed.

She couldn’t help but giggle at his indignant little “ow!” that followed the thump below.

“There are very breakable… packages, down here!” he huffed. 

“I’m sure any damage will be compensated,” she answered easily, trying to steady her breathing. He lifted himself to rest his chin on the bedspread. “You should take a shower, Lucifer. You’re looking kind of –”

“Shaggable?” he offered. “Delicious? Positively lickable?” 

“– ripe."

He looked down at his disheveled state and shrugged. He lifted himself to his knees began untucking his shirt. After a moment, he stilled his hands. He gestured toward himself. “Unless you’d like…?”

She shook her head no, a smile still playing on her lips. 

He stood then turned toward the bathroom, unbuttoning. “You can do both, you know,” the tone of his voice more serious than she would have expected.

She laid back on the bed, eyeing her overnight bag. “Both, what?”

He paused, leaving his back to her, the shirt loose off his shoulders. “What you want to do, and what you need to do.”

She sat upright, trying – and failing – not to be interested in his back.

In the scars, on his back.

She hadn’t seen them since that night, and the look of them couldn’t be – couldn’t possibly be – as bad as she remembered.

She hoped.

“And what category do you think you fall in to, exactly?”

After a moment, she saw his shoulders move in a laugh. He turned and flashed her a grin. “Why, both! Of course!”

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Of course.” He ducked into the bathroom. “Hey!”

He popped his head back out, a hopeful expression on his face. 

“Do you have any idea what room Bianchi may be in?”

“None whatsoever.”

She plopped back onto the luxurious comforter. “Great.”

 

After she heard the shower start, she slipped out of the bed and began to rifle through her bag, grabbing her toiletry bag and nightclothes – an old t-shirt and thin pajama shorts, which she had debated for _about_ a thousand years. Quietly she padded into the bathroom, tying up her hair, brushing her teeth and washing her face as she listened to Lucifer humming a tune she didn’t recognize.

It was all horribly domestic, and she definitely could not, whatsoever, get used to it. Never. Nope. 

The shower cut out just as she was walking out, and Lucifer slid the barrier aside with a flourish.

Directly in her line of sight.

She caught his grin and tried not to stare at anything else, feeling the steam wash over her, smooth with the scent of lavish products. 

“Towel?” he suggested.

She reached around her and grabbed one from the tub beside her, thrusting it in his direction. 

“Lovely,” he said, taking it. She stepped away as he wrapped it around himself, tucking in the ends. 

She couldn’t stop herself from wavering in the doorway, taking in one last, long look at his lean form. He smoothed his hair back and stepped out, playfully flicking a bit of water in her direction. He turned toward the mirrors, smiling at her reflection.

Her expression changed, and he studied it. 

She stepped closer, her brows furrowed.

He realized.

He snapped, ram-rod straight, and whirled around to face her. Not that it mattered; his back was caught in the mirror. She dragged her eyes from it to him, disbelief written plain on her face.

“What happened?”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Lucifer. How did you…?”

She raised a hand to his shoulder. His skin was invitingly warm beneath hers, soft and damp. She pressed on, trying to turn him. 

He stood fast.

“I didn’t do anything,” he responded.

She shook her head.

He took in a deep breath. His own voice replayed back in his head, the promise he had made to her.

_I want to tell you everything._

She was waiting, her expression of disbelief slowly turning into one of hurt.

He didn’t understand. 

“Was any of it real?” she asked.

He raised his arm across his body, gently pulling her hand from his shoulder and holding it in his own. She recoiled as though stung.

“This is what I was trying to tell you, before,” he told her, staring at her hand. “But I… couldn’t.”

“What. Happened,” she repeated.

He smoothed a thumb over her skin. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“You don’t know. How do you not know,” she asked, taking her hand back.

The vacancy left more than Lucifer’s hand empty. The lines of his body hardened as he bristled, snapping his eyes to hers. She took a step back. “Someone did this to me. They took away something very valuable to me as well. I intend to discover the party responsible and get it back.”

She rubbed her hand in her other, taking another step back. “Every time I think I know something about you,” she said, shaking her head, “it feels like I don’t know you, at all.”

He clenched his jaw, unsure what he would respond if he hadn’t. 

She turned away, and he watched her go.

 

He finished up in the bathroom, hearing her call Dan to check in on Trixie.

By the time he came out, she was curled up on one end of the couch, knees to her chest, bare feet on the leather, listening.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he dressed, not in nightclothes, but in a suit. He took a key from the desk beside her and left without a word.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she told the phone, as the door closed behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

She crawled into the bed soon after and clicked off the light. She left the curtains open and stared out onto the city below, its lights offering just enough to see by.

She left plenty of space for Lucifer, on the left side of the bed.

Even though she was in a hotel room, the scent of a comforter in her nose that was not her own, listening to the muted sounds of the building around, the sensation of being alone still felt a little too familiar. Especially when she had been expecting someone else to be there.

She fell asleep, wrapped around herself, deep into the night.

The sound of the door opening woke her, sending a stream of light into the room. She remained still, listening.

Lucifer kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on the couch. She heard him undo his belt and more fabric rustling, the sound of him lifting and setting down his feet. 

The smell of whisky was more obvious, now. 

She swallowed, tucking her face deeper into the pillow. 

Lucifer lingered at the foot of the bed before passing it, moving to the window. His pants hung low on his hips, and he stood, barefoot and shirtless. 

He looked out, the whisper of a reflection in the glass. He placed both hands flat on the window and exhaled, leaning forward to rest his forehead. His breath fogged against the cool glass.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

She didn’t know how long it took for him to crawl into the space beside her, the mattress dipping lightly with his weight. She felt him carefully settle, turned away from her.

After a few moments – or hours, if she was going by how it felt – she turned over.

She pushed herself closer, her breath ghosting over his neck. 

She felt, rather than saw, his shiver, but he remained still.

She took in a deep breath, reaching down inside herself for courage. She pressed on, tucking her face beneath his neck and draping an arm over his waist, splaying a hand over his bare, soft stomach and sliding up.

His chest rose and fell beneath her hand, his heart beat rapid beneath her fingers.

She adjusted her head on his pillow. 

“I know,” she whispered.

His heartbeat slowed.

 

The bright, desert winter sun shone through the glass and for one fleeting moment Chloe regretted her decision to leave the curtains open.

It was short lived.

Because it woke her up much sooner than she would normally, and she found herself wrapped in Lucifer’s embrace, he curled protectively around her. She opened her eyes, facing the window, the cloudless sky reflected in her eyes.

His leg lay over hers, his arm wrapped tenderly around her waist and the other tucked under his pillow. She was most surprised that, even in his sleep, he wasn’t copping a feel. 

He sighed against her hair, fallen loose in the night.

She covered his arm with her own, running her fingers lightly over his skin, under the covers.

He stirred at the motion, tugging her closer.

And it was then the hard outline of his cock, snuggled happily against the curve of her ass, smacked right in the forefront of her mind. She caught a laugh in her throat. 

Even the Devil, it seems, got morning wood.

But she –

Wel, she was only human.

She pulled her lips in and pressed, experimentally, back against him.

His exhale brushed the hair on her neck, giving her goosebumps. 

She’d seen him naked before, probably too many times. 

But this. To feel him, against her, warm and easy and so… normal.

Well, not _exactly_ normal, she thought, sliding gently up against his length and suppressing a shiver. She pressed her head deeper into the pillow, further exposing her neck to him, aching for the touch of his breath against it.

 _Chloe Decker_ , she chided herself with a smile. _You’re being a bad girl._

_Lucifer would approve._

He hummed as though agreeing, and she stilled her small, curious ministrations. 

With a deep inhale he awoke further, pressing into her in earnest and tightening his hold against her, rubbing his nose against her neck. “Good morning,” he purred, his voice low and deep in her ear.

She wondered if he was like that with all his partners, but something in her told her – no.

No, this was different. She knew. She didn’t know how she knew – and, frankly, the more pragmatic part of her would tell her she was fooling herself into believing otherwise – but a voice inside her told her, quietly and surely, that he would only be – could only be – this tender with her, and her alone.

“Good morning,” she answered, turning slowly to face him.

He smiled against the pillow, not yet opening his eyes.

She studied his soft expression, youthful and content. 

He lightly rubbed his nose against hers and she fluttered her eyes closed, breathing in his breath. She dragged a leg up and over his, opening her body to him. His hand splayed open against the small of her back, and she could feel him in earnest now, so near where her body was slowly and surely begging for him to be, if the rush between her legs was anything to go by.

Warm beneath the covers, with the whole day ahead of them, she knew: there was nowhere to go and nowhere to be, except for right here, now. 

She trailed her fingers up his arm shyly, following the skin back to his shoulder, his neck, his scent surrounding her.

She playfully scratched at the stubble on his face, then slipped behind his neck, trailing her fingers into his hair, feeling him smile.

When he kissed her, it was the easiest thing in the world.


	6. Chapter 6

His lips pressed against hers, tender and plush and yielding. She pushed her hips closer but he didn’t deepen the kiss. He took his time, running his hand up her back to hold her close, his tongue swiping at her bottom lip as she opened to him, inviting.

He pressed lightly against her and her grip on his hair tightened, urging more. 

He moaned quietly into her mouth and the sound shot straight down, sending a rush of heat into her belly. She inhaled and he gripped her shirt, pushing lightly against her with the rest of his body.

She yielded, turning to lie on her back without breaking the kiss. He lifted to slot into the space above her, resting his weight on his forearms.

She lifted a knee, dragging her foot up, then down, his still-covered calf, her body humming. Her hands, suddenly both free, tucked beneath his arms and traveled up his sides, fanning out to explore the hard muscles of his back.

His cock, nudging and insistent, pressed against the flimsy material of her pajama shorts. He leisurely dragged his hips down and up and she followed the motion, gasping into his mouth.

He swiftly found a rhythm that had them both panting. She dug her nails into the tender flesh of his back, so surprised to feel smoothness where she had been sure there was marbled flesh. He jerked lightly against the pain, pressing more deeply into her.

He broke the kiss but not the rhythm, moving to kiss down her neck. She lifted her chin, giving him more access, unable to stop the moan that escaped. He moved a hand over her side, brushing over her breast on the way down, finding the hem of her shirt and sliding beneath. 

His hand on her stomach, his harsh breathing in her ear, was almost all she needed.

It had _definitely_ been _way_ too long.

She murmured his name, and he hummed in response, sliding his hand up to cup her breast, swiping a thumb over her nipple, bringing it to a peak.

He kissed the small spot behind her ear, then dragged his lips off her neck, lifting himself enough to look at her face.

She watched the expression on his face fell, confused.

He hauled his eyes down her body, snapping his hand off her breast and lifting himself up off of in an jerky motion, as though burned. He pulled his hand out from under her shirt, much to her displeasure. She pulled a whine back into her throat as he sat back on his knees, pushing the covers away and exposing them to the cooler air around.

“Detective,” he said, holding his hands in front of him in shock. “I didn’t realize – I should have realized –”

Her eyes darting down to his exceptionally prominent erection, still straining against the front of his trousers. Quickly, Lucifer maneuvered a corner of the comforter in front of himself, the light pressure causing him to stifle a grunt.

She propped herself up on her elbows. His eyes were wild, darting around to look at anything but her.

“Lucifer -"

“It wasn’t my intention,” he spoke rapidly, fixing his eyes unnervingly on her. “And I know obviously this,” he wiggled the comforter, “is no excuse, absolutely none at all, and for that, for me, I sincerely hope this doesn’t – that I didn’t –”

She raised upright, reaching for him. “Stop,” she whispered.

He scooted further back until he stumbled, falling off the bed and entangling himself in the sheets. “I will, of course,” he told the floor, struggling to disentangle himself. 

She held back a smile. “No,” she said softly, and he shook his head at the ground.

This wasn’t working. She could see the redness crawling up his neck, settling into his face. She reached forward, grabbing his face with both hands and forcing him to look at her. “Lucifer. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Really is.”

“But you don’t, want –” he started, then hesitated. 

He shook his head, not understanding why she wasn’t understanding.

“Want, what?” she asked softly, releasing his face and holding his shoulders instead.

“Me,” he breathed out.

“Not down there, no.”

Her smile faded at the look in his eyes, so far past confused that the emotion was probably back in Los Angeles by now.

“I’m not –” 

_Worth it_ , she knew he was going to say, and refused to let the words out of his mouth. “You are,” she interrupted, swallowing against the surety in her gut. “You are.”

He gazed up at her then, still tangled up on the floor, like he was a flower and she the sun, the source for all his light and warmth.

She slid back slowly, rubbing her legs together. The delicious ache between still lingered, insistent, even given the turn of events.

Perhaps even more so, now, seeing his chivalry, his attempt to be a gentleman. 

His mouth hung open, watching the motion. He dragged his eyes up her long, bare legs, lingering at her hemline before moving all the way to her face. She felt absolutely devoured, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Can you come back, please?” she said sweetly. “Darling?” 

His jaw dropped.

He lifted himself back onto the bed to kneel between her legs, kicking away the comforter. She expected him to pounce at the go-ahead. Instead, he drank her in, his hands coming to barely skirt against the outside of her thighs like she was something fragile, something precious.

More hot blood swooped down low, and she ached for those fingers. She lifted her knees, pressing lightly against his hip, trying to explain exactly what she wanted.

He bowed down, resting his forehead against her stomach. She threaded her fingers through his hair as his hands came up, slipping beneath her to wrap her in a hug.

Something tender bloomed in her.

Something vulnerable.

She rested one hand lightly on the back on his neck, the other softly making small circles through his hair, and she remembered – they had all day.

(That little voice reminded her they had their whole life, too.)

He pushed her shirt away, resting against the skin of her stomach, and breathed out a word. 

“Hmm?”

He lifted, resting his chin against her. “Angel,” he repeated, looking into her eyes, as blue and open as the sky he had missed for centuries.

She hummed thoughtfully, then with a finger lifted his chin. He followed through on the motion, pulling himself to cover her once more, delicately. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, dragging her hands down.

“No,” she gently corrected, closing her eyes and lifting to speak against his lips. “It’s just me.”

Something warm pressed against her hand and she pulled away a little, enough to see that he had squeezed his eyes tightly shut. She made to drag her hand down, but something stopped her.

Something she didn’t expect to be there.

“Yes,” he explained. “You are.”

He breathed out as she used both hands to feel down his back, coming into contact with a strong appendage. 

“And not in the feathery, self-righteous way, either,” he continued.

She followed it outward, shocked to feel –

“Feathery?” she repeated.

He lifted enough to see the surprise on her face. He couldn’t understand why it was there, tilting his head in confusion.

She turned to look at their reflection in the glass. It was the reflection for some reason, that told her she hadn’t absolutely lost her mind. She followed the reflection back to the wing, and the wing back to him.

In an aborted motion, she pushed upright, shoving him down onto the bed. He let out a soft _oof_ as he hit the bedspread. The wings fanned out, easily overtaking the space. They slid out of his back as naturally as an arm. She dug her fingers into the feathers, which moved against her, yielding, until she met the flesh beneath, hard and warm. 

And real. 

He snapped his hips against her with a gasp as she dug in near the edge, where the large muscles met his back.

He mumbled something into the bedspread.

“What?” she asked, disbelievingly. The muscles had tightened, like a knot, and she pressed deeper against him. 

Again, he thrust against her. He snapped upright, grabbing her wrist and pinning her back to the bed, eyes wild. 

“Don’t,” he repeated.

She would be afraid, if it were not for the flush on his throat or his short, shallow breaths. She stared for a hard moment, then relaxed. He let go, pushing himself to lay on his side, one wing covering her while the other draped over the edge of the bed. “It’s not right,” he repeated. He opened his eyes, but did not lift his gaze.

Speechless, Chloe tentatively trailed her fingers through longest feathers beside him, like water. She felt them, and him, shudder against her, but she could not help herself. They glowed as though illuminated from within, the light as warm as breath.

“No one’s –“ he swallowed, “no one’s touched them. Yet. Ever. I got used to them gone. It’s all very… sensitive.”

She retracted her hand. “Sorry,” she murmured.

With a roll of his shoulders they disappeared, and she missed them immediately. The feeling nestling itself in her gut, and the awful thought crossed her mind that she would never want to be without them again – 

Followed quickly by the sickening though that Lucifer had, truly, cut them off. 

She shook the image away. He was Lucifer, again. Just himself. The man she knew.

Or thought she knew.

She felt his grip tighten against her in her silence, his arm around her waist, his forehead pressed against her temple. She tried to control her rapid breathing, staring at the ceiling.

Her mind flashed, briefly, to all those moments she could never quite understand. How he so easily shoved a man through a plate of glass, or lifted another above his head. The flash of red, his complete surprise at bleeding, Jimmy Barnes’ madness, his ability to get people to tell them exactly what they needed to know, plucking a bullet out of thin air – 

He hadn’t budged an inch, still holding onto her as though she were a life raft, and he were drowning.

Perhaps she did know him, the voice reminded her. _Better than anyone_.

She decided.


	7. Chapter 7

In for a penny, in for a pound.

She was already in bed with the Devil, right?

The thought had her shuddering, but she realized – she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t sure what she believed now, but she didn’t fear the man – the person – the being beside her. 

Not even a little.

She turned, running her hand up his arm to his neck, caressing his jaw with her thumb. He trembled at her tenderness. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but she pressed the words back with a kiss.

He pulled back, shocked, trying to read her expression. She held his gaze.

“This, Lucifer,” she said, pulling away enough to motion a finger between them, “This is real.”

He breathed out. “Detective.”

She shook her head, a smile on her lips. 

“Chloe,” he corrected, uttering the word with such heartbreak she felt it shatter against her.

She closed her eyes and pressed in for another kiss. He followed reflexively, and she felt the moment he finally gave in.

He pushed against her and she laid back once more, raising her knees to keep him close. 

The rest of the world could wait.

 

Lucifer was right – breakfast was good. 

They barely left the bed, even as the sun traveled across the sky. He chuckled against the column of her throat as she asked endless questions, and he tried to provide the best answers he could. She found herself asking questions in gasps, in between moans as she arched her back up at his touch, and he delighted in making it a game, seeing how long he could make her take to get a full sentence out, her thoughts pulled in too many different directions at the betrayal of her body.

Later, sometime after Lucifer had given the room service attendant quite an eyeful, he filled the bathtub and invited her in, bubbles and all. 

Some part of her had been afraid that stepping off the bed meant dropping back into reality. She was pleasantly surprised, as her feet touched the ground, to still find herself floating high above the city.

She slipped into the tub and slotted herself between his knees. She lifted some bubbles in her hands and blew them away, and she felt the rumble of his laugh.

She leaned back against him, letting the hot water soothe her tired muscles, embraced by the sound of the water gently moving around them and his low, steady breathing. 

“No more questions?” he murmured, moving to kiss the shell of her ear.

“I reserve the right for later questioning,” she replied, feeling his smile against her. She closed her eyes as he brushed her wet hair off her shoulder, exposing more damp, warm skin. “But right now, no.”

She was nearly drifting off, drawn in by the steady heartbeat against her, the cocoon of his arms around her.

Unfortunately, a thought entered her mind. “Wait,” she said, reluctantly pushing herself more upright. “What time’s the game?”

He shrugged. “Don’t care.”

She turned to face him. “You don’t… care?”

Something flickered in his expression, a tentative wariness. He leaned down, resting his forehead against her shoulder. She placed a hand on his arm in comfort.

“Lucifer,” she said, encouragingly. “Is something wrong?”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head against her. “Not at all.”

“What is it, then?”

He stilled. She waited.

“Did you know that Heaven and Hell are similar?”

She shook her head. “In what way?”

He lifted, dragging his eyes up to meet her own. “Both are compartmentalized. Below, everyone has their own torture chamber, their own specific Hell, based on their own guilt. With a little flair, thrown in for fun,” he said, briefly smiling. 

“And Heaven?”

“The same. Every person has their own, unique paradise.”

She slipped her hand beneath the water to hold his hand. “Why are you telling me this?”

He smiled sadly. “Because I’m fairly certain – though I’ve no idea how – that I’ve managed to stumble into mine.”

It took her a moment to understand before comprehension dawned on her. “And you’re… afraid to leave?”

He tilted his head side to side, considering. “There are no locked doors in Hell,” he explained. “But in the Silver City –” He paused, licking his lips, his eyes darting to the door. “All the doors are locked. According to my brother, anyway. I Fell long before the first humans ever made it.” 

“You were in and out yesterday,” she reminded him, suppressing a smirk when he waggled his eyebrows. “And we are going to have to leave this hotel room at some point.” 

In a swift motion, he tugged her back to him. She laughed as he nuzzled deeper into her neck. “Nope,” he answered, surely. She could feel the tightness in his shoulders, hear the strain of desperation in his voice.

“I’m pretty sure –”

“Absolutely not.”

He fingers reached a spot on her ribs and she recoiled, giggling. “Definitely –”

He tickled her again, delighting in her little squeal of his name. “What was that?” he asked, teasing.

She tried to wriggle free, but he held her fast. “Lucifer!” she yelped, and he laughed. 

She caught his eye, and he relented, breathless. 

He was incandescent.

She pushed him away lightly. “You have some money to win. Or, more likely, lose. And we have to find out if Bianchi’s left anything we can use –”

He threw back his head in an exaggerated sigh, sliding under, pushing her away and sloshing water all over the floor. She laughed, unable to help herself. 

She waited.

He wasn’t coming up.

She smacked his chest, letting him win. She stood, carefully stepping out and into the shower, turning the water on to rinse. 

He perked up, wiping the water from his face and gazing appreciatively at the way the bubbles clung to her skin, slipping easily from her shoulders and down over her slight, toned curves. She reached out a hand, testing the water. 

He had the absolute, certain feeling that no matter how many nudes the world’s best painters ever attempted, nothing would ever compare to the vision in front of him.

He slicked back his curling hair. She threw a shy glance over her shoulder.

“Quite some seven minutes in Heaven, huh?” she joked, stepping under the cascade of water, closing her eyes.

He slipped back down into the water, content just to watch. 

He knew, really, that this couldn’t be Heaven.

Heaven had never been so perfect.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re gonna get all pruney, if you stay in there any longer,” Chloe chided, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel. Lucifer still laid in the tub, his dark eyes still fixed on her, his mouth underwater and his nose just barely above like some kind of predator-in-wait.

He lifted just enough to answer her. “Not possible.”

She laughed, toweling off her hair and standing in front of the mirror. He didn’t budge. She paused, lifting an eyebrow and jutting her chin toward the shower. “Go.”

Begrudgingly he complied. She shoved him away when he tried to approach her, holding him at arm’s length with the towel in front of her as a shield. “You’re all soapy,” she explained, at his puppy-dog eyes.

He leaned forward, enticing. “So shower again. With me.”

After a short stand-off, and her patented Mom Look, he relented. 

By the time he was done (his _“what do you do in there?”_ ringing in her ears as she smirked, noting that he definitely took longer than she did), she was snuggled into a bathrobe, having hung up her garment bag on the back of the door. She finished applying her makeup, her hair held back in a low pony before she could style it.

He dried off, and she caught his reflection in the mirror as he tried to surreptitiously whirl the towel into a coiled, make-ship whip. 

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.

“Never let me have any fun,” he whined, choosing instead to press up against her, leaning down to inhale the scent at her neck.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” she responded, with a shake of her head. She couldn’t help the bloom of warmth in her center at his reluctance to leave, his inability to go more than a few minutes without touching her. (A direct improvement from a few hours ago, where he couldn’t bring himself to not be touching her.)

“Go get dressed,” she said, more forcefully, reaching behind her to try and shove him away. “You’re like a barnacle.”

He smiled against her neck, wrapping his arms around her. “I seem to remember, quite distinctly, someone else who was very attached –”

“Out!” 

He finally pulled away, grinning as he gave her one last look over.

 

Chloe leaned against the wall, watching Lucifer slip on his cufflinks, silhouetted by the glittering city behind him. Her makeup and hair – a dark, smoky eye and pale lip, her hair loose, cascading down her shoulders in golden waves – was done, but she was still in her bathrobe. 

“We need a plan,” she told him. He perked up, listening. “I want you to try to find out his room number, and you can do your unlocking… thing. And we can take a look around.”

“Shouldn’t be difficult,” he agreed. “But, correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t that breaking and entering?” 

She shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s for a good cause.”

He chuckled, speaking as he turned to gather his jacket. “You know they say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”

Her expression fell. He didn’t see it.

“Of course, that’s all bloody nonsense,” he finished, throwing on the jacket as he whirled back around. “There’s no actual road. And I’ve no idea how good intentions holds up as a building material.”

She breathed out a sigh of relief. He tilted his head, curious for a moment, but let it go.

“Well?” he asked, holding his arms out and giving a little spin. He was sublime in Armani, black-on-black, the lapel of his jacket a velvety material that veritably sang of luxury. He looked every part the dark angel she now understood him to be.

For a fleeting moment she wondered what the wings would look like, hanging freely behind him, their pristine white against the silky black. She could ask, but given how his more caged responses earlier when it came to their reappearance – and meaning – she didn’t want to. He would oblige, she knew, but it would place a strain on whatever tenuous relationship they were building. He blatantly insisted he was the Devil, not an angel. 

It was probably the uniqueness he craved, she realized. 

He cleared his throat at her quietness. She came back and smiled coyly as she approached, trailing his lapel between her fingers. He let out a soft breath, pushing into her touch.

She became suddenly, very aware at exactly how naked she was under the fluffy, white robe, and something about her being unclothed and him being entirely far too clothed had her skin prickling with goosebumps. 

He leaned down to capture her mouth in a kiss, but she knew, if he kissed her then, they would never make it to the game. They might never make it back to real life, at this rate.

She turned her head and he settled for pressing his lips to her cheek. 

“You know where to go?” he asked, double checking.

“I do.”

He straightened, suddenly unsure. “I assume you and Candy came to some sort of arrangement?” He ran a hand over the robe, fingering the tie. “Unless you’d like to lose this entirely.”

She shivered under his touch, uncertain when she had become so responsive. “Not quite.” She lifted her chin, confident. “I’m gonna Casino Royale the hell out of this bitch.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I trust that you will.”

Finally she got the strength to shove him toward the door, a smack on his ass for good measure. “Now go!”

He took a few steps, then hesitated in front of the door. He looked at her from over his shoulder. 

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she promised.

His gaze dropped, returning to the door. He squared his shoulders and opened the door.

 

Lucifer was no stranger to gambling. Hell, he could have loved to take credit for inventing it, but unfortunately – no. Humans often gave him credit for things he had not created. Pornography. Christmas music in October. Carbohydrates. 

Humans, even just by their sheer number, were infinitely more crafty and ingenious than he could be, though he would be loathe to admit it. Therefore, he simply enjoyed whatever deviant things they brought into being, happy to indulge in their customs and eccentricities. 

He and the other seven players had mingled for a short while before being called to the table. The room wanted to speak of old money, the sleek wood furniture lacquered and polished to a shine. Lucifer sat in the center, opposite the dealer, with his back to the door. The bar, off his left, was well-stocked with the best money could buy. He asked the bartender to make sure his glass was never empty of the Glenfiddich, and to his credit, the barkeep simply nodded at the request. 

He hadn’t realized how quickly Mr. Morningstar would go through the $35,000 bottle, even though Lucifer was sure he was concentrating on the cards and his attempts at creating conversation at the table.

He couldn’t care less about the money.

These games were always – always – about the deals he could make in the room, a chance to brush elbows with some very significantly well-off and well-connected people who were always greedy for something. Especially when he could promise them what they wanted, and all they had to do was owe him a favor. 

The Devil wove through the crowd like a shark in the reef. During the game, he lost some hands, and won others; the stack of chips and cards (half a million, a million) waxed and waned. It didn’t matter.

Everyone he spoke with took a deal. They always did.

He felt incandescent, buoyant.

Invincible. 

Except for the very small fact, like a grain of sand in his shoe, that Bianchi wasn’t giving him the time of day, let alone his room number, no matter how much Lucifer dialed up the charm. He had just called a hand, studying the other man’s expression when it abruptly changed.

Lucifer noticed a few others’ had as well. The dealer continued to speak, slipping Bianchi’s cards over to her and showing them he had won that hand. Bianchi dragged his eyes back to the cards.

Lucifer turned in his seat, wondering what on Earth had taken away _that_ poker face.

And felt his own fall away completely.


	9. Chapter 9

Chloe waited until Lucifer had left before ordering a bottle of champagne from room service. After all, she wanted to make sure she made an entrance, and in order to really do that she was going to have to wait a while.

As she waited, she zipped open the garment bag to reveal the dresses Candy had insisted upon. The first was similar to the one they had seen her in, a light, shimmering blue with off-the-shoulder straps and a slit all the way, way, up. 

_“That one makes your eyes pop,”_ Candy had said, _“And probably Lucifer’s, too, right out of his skull”_ she added, with a smile.

Chloe unhooked it and laid it on the bed, discarded.

The second dress was a simple black that slipped to the floor, a halter with three straps across the back that suggested dominatrix, more than grace. It didn’t look like much on the hanger, but when Chloe had put it on – since she was taller than the other woman, and slightly more slim – it hugged in places she didn’t know a dress could hug.

She took it off the hanger and laid it atop its sister.

A knock at the door and room service entered, leaving the bottle, chilling in a bucket of ice, two glasses, and a bowl of fresh, ripe strawberries. She tipped the man with the cash Lucifer had left on the desk. Happily, she munched on a strawberry, taking a sip of the expensive bubbly in between, and stood back, eyeing the gown.

 _“Lucifer’s gonna lose it,”_ Candy told her, standing behind her reflection in the mirror. Chloe had shaken her head, insisting that wasn’t the point, but she knew.

“Oh, yeah, he is,” she told the dress, taking another sip.

 

Even the man who opened the door for her was staring.

Lucifer turned, curious, but he certainly hadn’t expected _that_.

Chloe strode in, the very picture of poise and elegance and _hellfire_.

Her dress wasn’t red. It was the color of blood, pooled on the floor, dark and shimmering and dangerous. The long slit revealed an incomprehensible amount of sun-kissed thigh. The top was classy, covering her front completely in a halter, leaving her shoulders bare. 

As she made her way toward the bar, he saw her hair, tousled and styled as it fell down her completely bare back, the dress just a hair’s breath away from not covering the spot where her lower back met the curve of her ass. His eyes fell to the spot, to the satiny fabric, shining in the gleaming light. 

He couldn’t comprehend that this was the same woman with the messy ponytails and leather jackets, the woman with exceptionally complicated coffee orders and scuffed work boots and who hung her daughter’s scribbles on the wall like priceless art.

But, she was. 

And he knew that. Knew that side of her, when all anyone else was seeing was this.

She let him know that side of her.

He was glad he was sitting down.

Chloe caught his eye, giving nothing away.

Bianchi leaned over the table toward Lucifer. “Queen of the Damned, huh?” he asserted, then gave a low whistle, settling back into his seat. “You know her?”

Lucifer, still staring, caught Chloe’s subtle shake of her head. 

“No,” he told the other man. He dragged his gaze back to the table. “I think I could take a hundred years and still not know that woman.”

The dealer dealt another hand as Bianchi spoke. “I think I’d like to,” he told the table, down to five players, now. “Though I don’t think I need a hundred years,” he said. His tablemates chuckled. 

Lucifer won the next few hands, if only to watch Bianchi suffer as his pot got lower and lower with each passing turn.

 

The dealer announced they would be taking an hour intermission. 

Lucifer quickly made his way to the bar, frustrated. The little pleasure he got in watching Bianchi lose evaporated with every glance he threw toward the detective, every lewd comment he made to the table, describing his various conquests at other games. 

 

Just before the dealer made his announcement, Bianchi had bet Lucifer that he could bed that woman before the end of the night.

Lucifer, staring nonchalantly (as best he could, anyway, certain that if his Hellfire had not been taken from him it would be burning a hole into the center of the table) at his cards, spoke. “Bet, what, exactly.”

Bianchi leaned back, eyeing Chloe with such a ravenous gaze that it took everything Lucifer had not to pluck the other man’s eyes out.

“Your soul?” Lucifer suggested.

Bianchi laughed, tossing his cards in a call. “Sure, buddy. I’ll bet my soul.”

Lucifer fixed his gaze before lifting his hand. Bianchi stared, confused, then took it. The other tablemates – three, now – watched, silent. The space around them quieted, in fear or reverence, Lucifer couldn’t care less.

When he spoke, his word carried all the weight of Hell behind it. “Done.”

Bianchi took his hand back, rubbing it. 

 

“What will it be, Mr. Morningstar?” asked the bartender, already flipping over a fresh scotch glass. 

Impatient, Lucifer reached behind the bar, taking ahold of the first thing his hand could find – a bottle of vodka, by the look of it – and drinking it like a man dying of thirst. The barkeep stared, open mouthed, at the impropriety before recovering. Chloe watched beside him, an eyebrow raised.

He set the bottle down with a thud against the woodgrain. “If I had to listen to one more millisecond of that – that cretin –”

“Bianchi?” Chloe confirmed, her voice low. Lucifer nodded, making to take another swig. Her hand on his arm stopped him, but she was looking around the room and quickly retracted it. “What did he say?”

“What didn’t he say?” 

“About me?”

Lucifer held the neck of the bottle, turning to lean back against the bar and survey the room. Bianchi was still seated at the table, speaking to one of his lackeys – a burly man who would look far more comfortable breaking legs right now than any one person ought to be. 

“What did you bet him?” she asked quietly.

Lucifer chuckled, taking a smaller drink. “His soul.” He shrugged at her shocked look. “He was irritating me.”

“Can you actually do that?”

“No. Scared him, though.”

Chloe nodded, thinking. “Did you get his room number?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, apparently my charms don’t work on him, either.”

“Or maybe he’s unflippable,” she teased, smiling up at him. He finally took the time to really look at her up close. All the skin he had seen earlier, completely bare, somehow couldn’t compare to the enticing expanses he saw now. Like the light sheen of fabric promised something more.

He slipped the bottle into his other hand, letting his free one slide down her back and over her curves. He stilled, a grin growing on his face.

“You sly little minx,” he teased, leaning close. 

Chloe noticed Bianchi staring. She worried her bottom lip for a moment, thinking.

“You’re not wearing any panties,” he said, speaking low into her ear.

She stepped out of his reach, mustering up a scathing look to throw at him. He stared back, utterly confused. 

She took a few more steps, toward the table, absolutely certain that Bianchi’s eyes were on her before she strode toward the door. The doorman opened it for her, and she was swallowed into the amber light of the empty casino floor.

Bianchi ended up at Lucifer’s side.

“My soul, huh?” Bianchi considered. “So what happens if I win?”

He grinned, showing off a row of pearly white teeth. Teeth that Lucifer suddenly wanted to see scattered all over the floor.

Before he could answer, Bianchi was out the door, following.


	10. Chapter 10

Lucifer wasn’t a coward.

Really.

He tipped the bottle back, shocked to find it empty. It took everything in his power not to throw it, given he was still in the middle of a crowded room and had some kind of reputation to maintain. 

He handed it back to the bartender without a glance, who took it without a word. Lucifer continued to hold his hand out expectantly. It was soon filled with a glass, with an appropriate amount of alcohol inside it this time.

He lifted it to his lips, surprised at the smooth taste. He turned, suddenly curious. “What is that?”

The bartender lowered his head. “It’s from the Dalmore Constellation Collection, sir. Single malt.”

Lucifer took another sip, considering. “Constellation Collection?” he repeated. The bartender affirmed. “Well, it’s deserving of the stars, that’s for certain.”

The bartender smiled, and Lucifer leaned closer, studying the younger man in earnest. His white-tie outfit didn’t leave much to the imagination, nor did the blush creeping up the sides of his face at the other man’s sudden attention. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Lucifer purred, eager for any kind of distraction. 

“Nick,” the other man said. “Nick Holden.”

Lucifer took another sip, trying to will away the tightening sensation in his chest. He knew he should be doing something. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on what, his equilibrium completely thrown off by the detective’s sudden rejection. He was scrambling, reaching for the closest lifeline, unwilling to spend any time searching for a deeper meaning in it, the wound too open to poke and prod.

“Lovely.”

 

Chloe lingered, impatiently, just around the corner, waiting to see if Bianchi would follow her out. She heard the door open, the murmur of the crowd escaping, and peeked out. Bianchi stood, looking for which direction she might have gone.

All she had to do was get him up to his hotel room, and try to get a look around at anything he left around. She steeled herself, sure that she could find something that would be distracting enough without needing to – you know.

Besides. She had her partner backing her up, who just so happened to be the Devil himself.

She was absolutely certain he would protect her, especially now that she knew about what he had done with his brother.

She stepped into view, making as though she had just been casually walking that direction. Hurried footsteps rapidly approached, and she tried her best to remain indifferent to the sound, even as it sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing.

“Hey,” he softly called out, stepping into the space beside her. She stopped. “You okay?” he asked, the picture of a gentleman. “Looks like that guy got kind of handsy with you.”

She acted as though she was hurt, but wanted to brush it off. “Yeah, well. Not the first time,” she said, throwing in a smile for good measure. 

“I’m sure that happens a lot,” he remarked, not hiding whatsoever the way his eyes moved over her body. “Miss…?”

“Dancer,” she provided, daintily sticking out a hand. “Chloe Dancer.”

“Chloe,” he repeated. The way he said her name made her feel undressed, and not in a good way. 

“Don’t you have a game to go to?” she asked, noting the way his warm, clammy hand still held hers. 

He shrugged, finally taking back his hand. She resisted the urge to wipe hers on her dress. “They took pity on us. Got an hour break.”

She gave him her best sultry look, which probably made her look more dazed and confused than anything else. “Wanna get out of here?” she asked.

He grinned like a cat who caught the canary. “You have no idea.”

 

Lucifer knew he wasn’t a bad guy. 

He was much, much worse.

He had pulled Nick away, giving the rest of the workload to another bartender, and was currently snogging the life out of him in an empty corner, just down the corridor from the game. Nick licked into his mouth, his hands brushing over his hard lines and hard – other parts – making Lucifer groan, pushing him deeper into the wall. 

Lucifer unlocked the door beside them without looking, the little electronic click giving it away. He pulled them into the room without looking, without caring, finding it to be an unoccupied event space, large and empty and dark. 

Like something inside him, where there had once been light.

Nick fumbled for Lucifer’s belt, but Lucifer batted his hand away. The other man managed to pull away enough to look at him with bright blue eyes with blown-out pupils, eyes that reminded him so much – too much – of a certain someone else, at the moment.

“I want you,” Nick gasped, a whine in his voice. 

Lucifer paused, staring into his eyes, caging the man between his outstretched arms, palms flat against the wall.

“Is that what you really want?” Lucifer found himself asking. “To suck off a stranger in a bloody casino?”

Nick shrugged, a smile in his voice. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Besides,” he said, reaching for Lucifer’s belt again, “You’re really hot.”

Lucifer pressed on, finding himself curious in a way he had never been before. “But is that what you truly desire?”

Nick stilled, drawn into the Devil’s gaze. “No,” he admitted, the word barely a breath on his lips. “I want something real.”

“'Real?'” Lucifer asked, digging his fingers into the drywall. It crumbled beneath his grasp as easily as sand. 

“Real,” Nick repeated, unable to pull himself away. “A real relationship. Someone I can go home to every day and complain to and watch the Real Housewives with and who will make me breakfast on Christmas morning.” He exhaled. “Someone who loves me.”

Lucifer reigned himself in, then dragged his hands down the wall, releasing the other man. 

Nick shook his head, looking to him with concern. “You okay, man?”

Lucifer took in his eyes once more, deciding to stop running, for once.

“I just realized,” he said, a tremble in his voice he tried to steady, “there’s something I need to do.”


	11. Chapter 11

Chloe managed to only promise kisses all the way up to Bianchi’s room, but did have to slide her hands suggestively over his broad arms, his chest. He led her into an elevator, and she knew he was becoming more impatient in the small space. 

She breathed a short-lived sigh of relief when the doors opened on the same floor she and Lucifer shared. He led her down the opposite hallway, laughing at something he said as he pressed kisses to her neck, unlocking his room door.

She stepped inside. He took off his jacket, throwing it on the couch, and carelessly pushed up his sleeves, exposing his myriad of tattoos.

She playfully pushed him toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you take a shower?” she asked sweetly, surveying the room for anything left in plain sight. A laptop sat, open, on the desk, next to a cell phone. 

He pressed closer, wrapping his hands around her waist. “I’ve only got an hour, sweetheart. I think there are better ways to spend it.”

She tried to giggle, but he pressed closer.

His erection pressed against her thigh, and her throat constricted, catching the fake laugh.

It became suddenly, obviously apparent that this had not been one of her better ideas.

 

Lucifer all but ran into the hallway outside the game room, only to find it empty. The doorman stood like a statue, watching his every movement, studying his moderately disheveled state.

“The woman, who left,” he started, using his long legs to rapidly close the space between them, “Did you see where she went?”

“She left with Mr. Bianchi, Mr. Morningstar,” he answered. “Quite willingly,” he added.

Lucifer would have happily lifted the man off the ground and thrown him into the stratosphere at the addition, but he collected himself. “Do you know, exactly, where she went?” he asked again.

The doorman crossed his thick arms.

“I’ll just take that as a no, then?” Lucifer confirmed, eyes blazing.

At that moment, the other fellow – the thick one Bianchi had been chatting with earlier – stepped out. Lucifer directed his attention on him. 

Perfect.

 

Her mind whirled, trying to think of something – anything – that would get her alone in the hotel room.

She stepped out of his grasp, making a show of looking around before spinning back, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Champagne?” she suggested.

He grinned, following her deeper into the room. “You’re a hard woman to please, Miss Dancer,” he said, quickly picking up the phone and dialing room service. 

He hung up far too soon for her liking. 

“Ice?” she asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice as she felt her knees push against the edge of the bed.

“They’ll bring some up.”

“I meant – for us,” she tried, throwing in a seductive look. 

“No need for anything fancy,” he answered easily, pushing into her space. She fell to sit on the bed and he leaned over, crawling over her as she crawled backward, trying to maintain some distance.

She tried another laugh, the laptop plain over his shoulder. She wasn’t quite willing to give up yet. He ran a hand up her arm, gripping the top.

She looked at his hand, then his face. 

“You’re a sassy one, aren’t ya?” he said, in a tone meant to be teasing, but one that held a tinge of aggravation to it.

“You have no idea.” She laughed, coldly. “Even the Devil couldn’t tempt me.”

“I saw that,” he said, shifting to straddle her more fully. He made to kiss her. 

She turned her face away, letting him kiss her neck, feeling the strain on her dress where he was holding it down. “Do you know him?” she asked, desperate to keep the conversation going. “That Lucifer guy.”

“Yeah,” he answered, pushing his hips into her and sliding down, covering her more fully. “Real weirdo.”

“Yeah?” she continued, trying to fix her eyes on the laptop, wondering if it would be worth it.

 _At least six people are dead_ , she reminded herself. _It’s worth a little… discomfort_.

His other hand slid down to cup her breast, and she gasped at the invasiveness. The light fabric didn’t hide much, and she wasn’t wearing a bra or panties to offer any minute protection.

He took the gasp as something else, grinding into her harder. She tried to move back, her heart throwing itself into overdrive. 

Her movement prompted his other hand to surge downward, reaching for the slit of her dress. His mealy fingers found it easily, slipping under the fabric. It didn’t take more than a swipe of his hand before he was pushing his fingers against her, breathing heavily against her ear.

She raised her knees, trying to push him off, but somehow the dress had gotten tangled around her legs and she struggled against the fabric, unable to tear it.

He ignored her struggles and lifted enough only to push the dress further to the side, moving the slit closer toward the center. His other hand pinned one arm down beside her, nearly resting his full weight on it in such a way that she had seen the resulting bruises – but always on someone else. 

And now, it was going to be her. 

She yanked at his hair with her free hand, her body going into fight mode. He snapped back, a grin on his face at her roughness.

“Get off,” she warned.

“I’m trying to, darling,” he said.

The word, uttered from Lucifer’s lips so lovingly only hours before, suddenly made her sick to her stomach.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he urged, her fingers still threaded through his hair, “It’s only some fun.”

“No,” she said, stern. 

Something shifted behind his eyes, and she saw, fully, the man who could kill people in cold blood. He pulled himself out of her grasp and, in a swift movement, held her down roughly with one hand while the other fumbled for his zipper.

 

Lucifer wasn’t sure if he heard the scream, or if it was all in his head.

Either way, it was louder than anything he’d heard since the roar of Creation, whiting out his vision. He stumbled the last few steps out of the elevator, shaking his head as though to clear it, trying to read the room numbers.

He had been thinking, on the way up, that it really didn’t matter if the detective wanted him anymore or not – but he was not going to let her go after Bianchi alone. 

He owed her that much.

He knew he owed her much, much more – more than he would ever be able to repay, and he hated being in someone’s debt. At least, by remaining her partner, he could attempt to begin to crawl out of it.

He found the door quickly enough, and the floor was quiet enough that he could hear the sounds coming from inside. The _unmistakable_ sounds coming from inside.

His vision went red.

He kicked down the door, stepping over its shards as he marched inside. 

Bianchi was face down on the bed, his arm twisted behind him, and Chloe’s knee in his back. She didn’t react to Lucifer’s presence, concentrating instead on using all her strength to pull on Bianchi’s arm. He screamed, and the audible pop of the arm dislocating echoed throughout the room.

Lucifer was oddly proud of his little detective.

She shifted, and it was then that he noticed the bite marks on her shoulder, the redness around her wrist, the imprint of the bedspread on her back, the wrinkles in her once-pristine dress.

She finally noticed another person had entered the room, and whirled around, wild. Her hands still held Bianchi in a death grip, despite his obviously defeated state. 

“Detective?” he asked.

“Detective!” Bianchi screamed, trying to wriggle free. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you, you lying, stupid bitch!” 

Lucifer shut him up with a quick punch to the face, knocking him unconscious.

“That’s better,” he said, pleased.

Chloe was still breathing hard, in and out of her nose in shallow breaths, but let go of his arm.

“Are you alright?” he asked, reaching out.

She smacked his hand away. He held it in the air.

Her mouth was set in a thin, white line. 

“Darling?” he asked.

Tears bloomed in the corner of her eyes. She fumbled off the bed, yanking the dress free, and all but ran from the room.


	12. Chapter 12

It was too much. 

She should have known it was a stupid idea. She should have known she needed to better communicate with her partner, to not go into the situation without knowing, clearly, she had backup. She should have never come in the first place. She should have known it was a flimsy excuse – the flimsiest – and that what she really wanted was to spend more time with Lucifer, without the constraints of police work. She should have known she wanted to see him in Vegas, wanted to know the allure of it for him, wanted to know him, better, wanted him – 

She should have known better.

She kicked off her heels and dug herself out of the dress after locking their room door behind her – not that it mattered, she thought with a rueful laugh – flinging it on top of the other two. She clawed through her duffel bag, ignoring the pain between her thighs, ignoring the blooming bruise on her forearms, the sharp pain on her scalp where he had pulled her hair.

She tugged on the clothes she arrived in, relishing the softness of the worn fabric, the almost-comforting smell of laundry, before heading into the bathroom to clean up the best she could, unable to look at herself in the mirror.

She was pulling her hair up in a ponytail, standing in front of said mirror, when a soft knock finally came at the door.

“Detective?” came a familiar voice.

She chose not to answer. 

The door unlocked, and she heard Lucifer step into the room. The bathroom door was closed behind her. 

She finished with her hair and leaned over the sink, hanging her head, trying to pull herself together. She was a cop. This sort of thing happened. To a lot of people. To too many people. She wasn’t the first. She shouldn’t be so angry at herself about it.

She knew she shouldn’t be blaming herself.

After a long moment, another knock came, then a softer thud. She imagined Lucifer was leaning his head against the door.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was smudged and out of place now with the rest of her clothing. She swiped beneath her eyes, trying to fix the smudged eyeliner.

It worked, marginally.

The quiet of the bathroom echoed off the walls, suffocating.

She heard Lucifer softly sigh. Quietly, she padded toward the door, listening.

As if sensing her there – and God knows, maybe he could – he spoke. “If I could kill him, I would,” he told her, his voice filled more with exhaustion than anger, which surprised her.

“You can’t?” she asked.

Another sigh. “I’ve considered it. But I –” he paused. “I would lose my wings. And not just as when I cut them off. I’d be cut off, entirely, from everything divine.”

“Isn’t that something you want?” she asked. She didn’t want him to kill the man, she knew. She was more curious. “To be your own man?”

She heard him shift around, and she leaned her forehead against the door. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he admitted. “But I –” he let out a laugh. “I am too afraid.”

She closed her eyes against the admission. Soon, she pushed off the door, and took one last look at her reflection. 

It looked back at her, a little worse for wear.

She steeled herself, and opened the door. Lucifer nearly fell inside, having been leaning against the door, but quickly caught himself, willing himself not to touch her when that’s all he wanted to do.

“Don’t you have a game to get back to?” she asked, unwilling to show any emotion that spoke of weakness.

He shook his head, taking her in. Slowly, he dared, to lean forward, ever so slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. She did not.

He gently rested his forehead against hers.

“Let’s go home.”

She breathed him in, willing her heart to slow. 

"Bianchi?” she asked, feeling sure that she wasn’t going to be able to say his name soon.

He huffed out a laugh. “I said I couldn’t kill him. I didn’t say I couldn’t make sure he ends up exactly where he belongs. Eternity won’t be nearly long enough.”

Despite herself, she smiled. Hesitantly, she reached up, caressing the sides of his face.

“Let’s go home,” she agreed.

 

They packed and checked out, and it wasn’t until walking back to the car that Chloe willed herself to speak. 

“How much did you lose?” she asked.

He threw their bags into the trunk. “Nothing I can’t win back,” he replied, shutting the boot. “And I got something more valuable in return.”

“Bianchi’s soul?” she asked, sliding into the passenger side. 

He slid in beside her, hands running down the wheel as he considered his answer. “No,” he replied. 

He hadn’t yet started the car. She studied his expression. 

“Tell me, detective. Was this – is this what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?”

She rested her hand lightly atop his, pulling it to the center dash. “You know, at the bar, I was only trying to get him to follow me, to get into the room?”

He nodded slowly, realization dawning.

“And the other –” he swallowed, unable to finish.

She looked at their hands. “We have to go back to our real lives, now.”

His face fell. He pulled his hand away and turned the ignition, the engine roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive when she laid a hand atop his again, stopping him. She chose her words carefully.

“You’re in my real life, Lucifer. I never thought that the Devil, angels, whatever, were real, just stories people told themselves to make sense of the world. And right now the world doesn’t make a lot of sense,” she admitted, “and there’s so much that I don’t understand. But I’d like to.”

He looked at her with something akin to hope. 

“I’d really like to. If you don’t mind more, endless questions.”

He smiled, eyes soft. 

Quickly they flickered back into something glittering and mischievous and happy. Damn happy.

“I’ve just got one question for you, detective,” he purred, leaning close. Inches away from her lips, he whispered. “Did you steal the robes?”

She smiled. “Of course I did.”

He barked out a laugh, throwing his head back. She grinned at his enthusiasm, a smile on her face all the way back to the highway.

There was a lot, she knew, they needed to work out. 

The highway reached toward the horizon, and she leaned back, drinking in the endless expanse of sky and the dark, glittering stars above.

But - they had time.

They had all the time in the world.


End file.
